Ain't No Rest for the Wicked
by dearjenna
Summary: (Slightly AU HP fic.) The year is 1999. Kráma Damascus, a former Azkaban inmate and professional Metal-Charmer, is a paranoid schizophrenic whose only friends are the voices in his head. His thirst for bloodshed has resulted in him killing 12 people so far, and he is looking for his 13th kill. With the Second Wizarding War over, Dark Wizards are secretly reforming for a new rising.
1. Prologue: Damascus Falls

**Author's Note: This character is based off of headcanon original that I created for a Harry Potter RP. Message me if you're curious where I RP. It's a nice forum and it's not full of snobs who nitpick a lot, so you're given some freedom within the Potterverse, but not so much that you can't create too much outside of it. Anyway, I just like that it's just relaxed and you can play in your spare time. That was a tangent, I'm sorry. I hope you enjoy this. This is the prologue with some family and character history. If you see any mistakes, let me know, because I did a lot of editing to the source material used in the RP. And as always, please leave reviews!**

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Prologue: Damascus Falls

Kráma Damascus stood at 6' with a strong build, even muscle tone and broad shoulders. His brown hair fell just below his shoulders and appeared to be relatively calm and clean despite Kráma's disorderly life. As he aged, he seemed to stand even taller in confidence and physique. His life was hardly predictable, but he grew to love the chaos. Mania was not a state of being, but a way of life.

Henry Damascus and Virginia Pendleton officially met their fifth year in Hogwarts: School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Both were sorted into Slytherin upon enrollment and possessed a deep desire to join the Dark Lord's rising once they were of suitable age. Heavily prejudiced-both bred so-Henry and Virginia found true love and commonality in one other. It was in the Courtyard of Hogwarts that Henry spotted Virginia. In the crook of winter's longest chill, a young Virginia sat on a bench, cooing her dearest pet barn owl. She was clothed warmly in her best Slytherin robe and scarf. Henry had been admiring the girl for ages, it seemed. In Charms they both seemed equally skilled, and when Virginia stood up in class to demonstrate a newly-taught charm, Henry knew he had to get to know her better-how he ever went this long without her he would never know.

Virginia tossed her long, blonde hair and her emerald eyes crossed his ordinary brown eyes as he walked towards her with feigned charisma and courage. He was tall and brunette, but nothing particularly special. Nothing like her. She smiled sweetly. "She has the face of an angel," Henry told his friends later in the Common Room when they were alone. Soft features and sharp angles made Virginia look model-esque in her youth. Their first date was in Hogsmeade, window-shopping and sipping butterbeer. By nightfall, they decided to break curfew and stood in front of the Shrieking Shack, teasing each other to go near it. Virginia refused to comply and giggled and shouted for Henry to stop pushing her towards the abandoned house. She grabbed his hands as a final attempt to make him stop, when he took his opportunity to pull her in for a strong, loving first kiss. They began scheming to work with the Dark Lord after realizing they could trust each other, and their hatred for Mudbloods and Muggles grew deeper with time. Friends and family said they never met two people so much in love.

After graduation from Hogwarts, Henry and Virginia married. Henry took up a job working in a Quidditch shop enchanting golden snitches. The Damascus bloodline came from Greece and worked in metallurgy guilds even during the Medieval era. Metal-Charming was in his blood. Virginia studied potions on the side with a Death Eater and made connections for the couple to join in the Dark Lord's ranks. Henry and Virginia's first year of marriage was anything but tough, and their love soon consummated into two sons who also inherited their thrilling prejudices and haunting desires. Kráma Tari Damascus was first, born in 1969. The young boy was vibrant, always playing and laughing in the Damascus home. The couple loved their son very much. Unlike Virginia who grew up in a cold environment, Mr. and Mrs. Damascus wanted to make sure that Kráma had everything he needed and all the love he could ever imagine. Work for the Damascus family was going well, and the couple had time to spend with their son despite several Death Eater meetings. Henry spent many hours teaching Kráma about Metal-Charming and why Mudbloods were filth; Kráma was too young to practice or fully understand, but Henry wanted to make sure his son understood what was important from a young age.

In 1973, Henry Kráma Damascus, Jr., was the second son born. Both sons had adopted their father's brown hair and brown eyes. Unfortunately, Little Henry was diagnosed with cerebral palsy soon after birth. His physical deficiencies hardly ruined his spirit when he was a baby. Henry and Virginia refused to let that slow them down; they wanted the best for Little Henry. When the youngest child was 4, he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder after some violent fits and bouts of depression seemingly uncommon for child of that age. He had just learned to truly express himself, and he worried his family constantly. Henry, Virginia and Kráma were devastated at the burden of Little Henry's life-the little boy was having a difficult time maintaining mentally and physically. Little could be said for either abnormality during that time despite efforts in wizarding medical magic. Such shortcomings gave the Damascus family little hope that there could ever be a cure for Little Henry's struggles. But it was Kráma who would soon suffer the worst of anyone.

Kráma's life changed forever at the age of 9. There had been talk in their large, wizarding neighborhood that a few Death Eaters planned to attack betrayer's home soon. Henry and Virginia were not allowed to join in the fight with their conflict of interest of living in the neighborhood. In the middle of the night, a large fire swept the neighborhood. The flames billowed into terrifying shapes, and the home of the betrayers was burned to the ground-but the house was only two doors away from the Damascus family. As can be a Death Eater's way, the ones who caused the fire quickly left without a word. The witches and wizards who could did their best to fight the fire, but it was too late. Law enforcement later surmised the cause was Fiendfyre-difficult to avoid and unavoidably fatal. Kráma's odd relationship with fire began that day when the fire spread to his home. The fire roared towards the Damascus home swiftly. Henry and Virginia saved Kráma first-a guilt he continues to hold with him, but he'll never admit. As his parents turned back into the house to save Little Henry, the fire burned the remaining family members to the ground along with the home-wood and bone crumbled into ash all the same. Kráma, with very few family members living or wanting to take care of a child, was sent to a wizarding orphanage on the outskirts of London.

What developed as seemingly typical nightmares in an orphanage by a young child who had just lost everything, quickly evolved into violent reactions during the day. Two months had passed since his family's passing, and Kráma had not made any improvements in his grieving. The orphans and keepers alike tried to break through to the young boy, but Kráma would curl up into a ball on the floor, scream a blood-curdling scream and cover his ears as if to shut something dreadful out. The orphanage keepers did not know what to do-they had experienced very little like it. Kráma could never explain what he was feeling or where his night terrors originated. After many sessions with a Healer from St. Mungo's, Kráma was admitted into a wizarding children's asylum in the European countryside. His diagnosis: paranoid schizophrenia.

The constant screaming and terror derived from paralyzing fear of the voices he regularly heard despite the calm of the orphanage. Voices in his head were the least of his and the asylum's problems, however. Kráma was also beginning to show signs of magic, but the magic was so violent and threatening that Healers were almost too afraid to release the child to Hogwarts for attendance. Kráma and his voices knew that admittance into Hogwarts was a long-shot, and Kráma became a regular behavioral problem, with constant tantrums and bullying of the other children. Should he find out that another child was of Muggle descent, Kráma fed on their worst fears and psychoses and would bully them at night. Administrators issued more security around Kráma so that he could be watched carefully. During a fit one night, Kráma lit his room on fire-a small fire, but the other troubled children were frightened as was Kráma at first. That was until the boy realized it was his doing. He saw his reflection in the fire and an evil grin spread across his face. The watch of the asylum halted their efforts to stifle the fire when they saw his expression. One tried to reach out to him, but Kráma was not the least bit phased. He just stood there, proud, as the flames licked the bit of oxygen still left in the small room. It was an epiphany: He had not just faced the fire, but created it. He could wield it, metaphorically-speaking. From that point forward, fear of the flames only came when he was not in control of them.

Kráma accepted his fate as a schizophrenic, and it did not take long after that night. Should Kráma have an episode, little could be done to stop him. The screaming began to stop and he soon began understanding the voices in his head-he could relate to them. They wanted the best for him, he thought. Instead, Kráma would bend to their will no matter what they asked.

One night in summer, the Healers heard screaming and crying coming from an older hallway in the large asylum. Often these noises weren't uncommon, but by oath they had to attend to every unsettling sound they heard. Through the bed chambers and common areas were several children stricken with psychoses and symptoms of insomnia and anxieties. Many children hardly slept and would sit rocking, eyes darting everywhere. It was common that many who ended up in the asylum rarely came out sane enough for society. For centuries children either died at a young age there, or were transported to an asylum for adults when of age. Despite all the mania surrounding the Healers, none seemed to be screaming. The child's screaming and crying echoed throughout the vacant hall. When the Healers made it, they spotted a young girl hanging by her hair from the wooden rafters. They found Kráma standing underneath her dangling body, laughing-a sound documented as something akin to a hyena-with blood dripping from his wrists and hers. The girl was saved quickly, but Kráma was soon regarded as far too gone. The young girl was later found to have documented hylophobia-a phobia of wood. Why Kráma decided to slit their wrists is unknown, but his fascination with scarification was noted then. Healers and security in the asylum eventually had to confine Kráma to a charmed, detainment cell.

By the age of 11, Kráma was ready to attend Hogwarts and would have fits in his cell, throwing himself at the walls, begging for entrance. There were still six months left before children would receive their letters and begin their academic careers, and the Ministry of Magic had been making moves to heal the children of their mental diseases. They brought in potions experts and more Healers from St. Mungo's to try and brew cures. The first few batches of potions lead several children without any manic behaviors to gain them. Others who did not become manic became fatally ill. One young girl was so sick she would regurgitate every meal and blood usually followed. The Ministry was ready to pull their funding for the experimental medicine when another batch came through and it seemed to make many of the children stop screaming. They began playing and giggling and having fun. Finally the children in the asylum had a chance to act as children. Kráma's hyperactive aggression even cooled. He began acting even-tempered and the asylum excitedly awaited entrance for a few of the young witches and wizards of age.

The owners of the asylum and the Ministry granted Kráma enrollment. Even after the new cures seemed to be linked with mysterious deaths of some of the children who seemed so happy, the asylum used Kráma as the poster child of health and their amazing work in medicine. "Look at how his aggressive behavior has silenced!" they said. The Ministry's grant gave Kráma the unfortunate-for everyone else-practice of officially working with magic at Hogwarts. He was sorted into Slytherin and made friends with many wizards and witches who bore the same hatred and desire for chaos that Kráma could remember inheriting. However dark as giving a boy like Kráma the chance to wield magic may be, Kráma did show promise in Charms and by the time he was in his seventh year, he turned back to his roots and began working as an apprentice with a Metal-Charmer. He still had many violent mood swings and manic episodes, but his violent acts were limited to beating up other boys his age. The less-manic Kráma knew that he did not want to ruin his chances at Hogwarts when he had gotten his way to go. He managed to calm the voices long enough until just after leaving the school, convinced that they cared for his well-being so they would not ruin this chance for him, either. But in 1986, two nights after he completed his schooling, the night of Kráma's first kill started a new chapter in his dark life.

Kráma had just secured a full-time apprenticeship with a metal-charmer working in a small place outside of Hogsmeade when he graduated. While his mentor worked on bigger projects, Kráma had been perfecting his snitch making-a job he treasured. Like many wizards, he adored Quidditch. After the first day on the job, the voices returned. Relieved to have his friends again talking loudly amongst themselves, Kráma was receiving messages that he must murder his mentor's son. Kráma was later documented, by a Ministry worker, saying, "My skin itched. Like this sensational burn that I just had to get rid of. I felt it on my wrists like… Like that night with that girl they just had to save… I needed that release. I needed that kill. They wanted it because they knew I wanted it. They wanted to cure the itch." The cure for that itch was knocking the young man out with a hex in the middle of Diagon Alley and taking him away to the countryside-on the outskirts of Devon. After etching the number 13 into the victim's bare back, Kráma lifted him by way of a spell and cast him to a wooden pole where his victim burned to death. When Kráma "awoke" from such a manic state, he saw the fire and tears began to well up in his eyes. He had forgotten for a moment that the fire was his creation, and he heard his family's screams again, this time piercing his ear drums like spears to his heart. He fell to the ground covering his ears and cried. He awoke six hours later in the Leaky Cauldron, confused. He had no idea who rescued him or if he was ever suspected of the murder. But when he woke and realized what had happened, a grin reappeared on his face. It felt so good to finally be back to his old self-the self he had hidden away for so long. Kráma later returned to his small shack of a home and found that his wand was still in his pocket. He stripped himself and sat down on his ratted couch.

After staring at the wall for 15 minutes, the perfect spot of flesh seemed to make itself known to Kráma. "It was itching really badly…" He pointed the wand to his spine and mumbled "diffindo" almost inaudibly. Little power was needed for such a thing. A cut formed on the center of his back right across his spine. The burn, the cure, tore his flesh in a cut no longer than two inches, and blood slowly oozed from the wound. He grunted loudly as if he had just had his first, a bead of sweat from the pain dampening his forehead. When it was over, he sighed in relief. _There…_ the voices soothed. It was the beginning of something new for Kráma, and he had his friends to thank for that. His mentor stepped down a day later, completely destroyed from the loss of his son, and gave his business to Kráma, whom he naively trusted. A few nights later, Krama could be seen with the word "diffindo" carved between his shoulder blades in memorium of his favorite spell.

In the shadows, with his friends, Kráma developed a deeper love and taste for killing. He began going out in the same clothing as his first kill each time he killed as part of the game-to get into the spirit of the sport. It's the only thing about him that screamed tradition, in a hollowed, hopeless way. He would take makeup and cover his face giving the illusion of a translucently pale or sickly man, and dark eye makeup that deepened the malice in his grin. He created a character-he began playing with his mania. For Kráma, this was about disrupting order and satisfying a thirst for bloodshed. In his alter ego garb, he was making murder fun.

Two kills later and Kráma found himself in Azkaban in 1988 for being a "very naughty boy." He kept to himself in the deep, dark cave-like cell of the prison and shared everything with his best friends. During the Second Wizarding War, Kráma was released from Azkaban just before the fall of the Ministry. He would say it was for "good behavior." But nine years in solitude cannot punish a man who is already trapped in his own mind. Kráma found his release to be perfect timing to begin his next kill. The Dark Lord was regaining his strength and was taking back the world he once thought was his. Kráma was not particularly one to care to be a Death Eater, for followings and groupings were never his style, but he never minded another destroying the Mudbloods and creating chaos. It made his work more interesting-he had to become creative. In a very short amount of time, Kráma Damascus had added to the fear and tears of the wizarding world and Great Britain by viciously murdering eight people-two Muggles, three Muggle-borns and three Purebloods who were in the right place at the right time for him. Each one with the right amount of scratch for his itch; each night after a kill he would do as he had done before and scar the memory into his skin as a token of how far he and his friends had come. He fought in the war, mostly undercover-not ready yet to go back to Azkaban. During the Battle of Hogwarts, a curse just barely missed his head. Putting his life on the line for the Dark Lord did not fit into his scheming. Kráma decided to take off before he could get hurt and plot for his next kill. The number 13 was important to him, and he wanted to make sure he made it memorable.


	2. 1: His Twelfth Kill

**Author's Note: I'll be working on _Dastan in Wonderland_ some throughout the next few days; I want to make sure I keep the plot on track and I make a chapter worth reading. That story itself is such an odd crossover that I know people aren't really looking for it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. For the first chapter I figured I'd backtrack for a moment to a time not that long ago... Reviews always welcome!**

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Chapter One: His Twelfth Kill

Kráma wasn't one for sentimentality. He loved metal-charming, and that was about it. When Kráma returned home from work, he decided to take a long shower to wash off the grime from working in a dark shop all day with metals. Kráma was one of the few metal-charmers nearby, so business was steady, yet his home was a shack. It was hardly welcoming, but it suited his needs fine. The rooms were bare with the exception of modest furniture; there wasn't much there to distract him. Yet his usual urges were nonexistent that night. _She really is beautiful_, one of his friends said. All day they had been going on and on about some woman and it took everything Kráma had not to tell them to shut up. He had never been one to take sexual notice of anyone; even in his early pubescent years Kráma kept to himself. He was never one to be afraid of it given he was never truly alone.

For the first time in a long time, Kráma would have truly preferred that his friends stay quiet. He didn't mind their constant chattering, but all he desired was sleep. He groaned. "Who are you blabbering about now?"

_Your beautiful witch next door_, another said.

"You know I don't give a fuck about that."

Sitting on his sofa, he sunk further down, getting into a comfortable, resting position. _Just go look at her_, another said.

Kráma groaned loudly and put his hands over his face. "Why?" he said with a whine.

_You'll see..._

Kráma went outside to turn on his porch lamp as he did every evening, though he never had any visitors. Perhaps it was just a subconscious action-one of the little things he remembered about living at home with his parents as a child. He knew he lived next to a woman-he had for a few years, but he barely paid much attention to her. They might say "hello" in passing in the mornings but nothing else. Her home looked less worn down than his-less of a shack, more of a quaint cottage. Even for a man who hardly cared for anyone, Kráma could recognize beauty. There she was, outside tending to her garden. She had a tan complexion with long, blonde hair that, even in a straight ponytail, seemed to just fall at the top of her round bottom. Even for a young, thin woman, she was curvy. The woman looked up from her garden patch and at him and smiled, waving shyly. "Good evening," she said. Kráma smirked and gave a short wave. "Good evening," he answered. "Stay safe tonight. It's getting dark." She chuckled before heading inside, taking his remark as pleasantry rather than warning. Even for one who did not flirt often, Kráma could spot it. He knew, by way of few telling him, he wasn't unattractive. He shook his head in slight amusement and scratched at his arm before heading inside as well.

Never could Kráma remember a time when his bed looked so enticing. He had just laid down in the bed when the voices began again. _I told you she was beautiful_, said one.

_Very beautiful_, said another.

Kráma pulled his pillow over his face and moaned. "I don't ask for much from you lot," he said in a muffle beneath the cotton. "All I ask is that I sleep tonight. _Just_ tonight." After a few seconds of silence he sighed and put the pillow back underneath his head. He reached over to his left forearm and began scratching it right above two parallel scars. Giggling-he heard muffled giggling coming from inside his head. He sighed again. "Stop."

_I think you're missing a third scar to match the three on your right arm, there, Kráma, dear… _

Kráma Damascus had only one method to his madness, and it came by way of his self-mutilation. Currently, he had three, horizontal, parallel scars running down the length of his right forearm, and two on the left. Each one marking a kill of his past. The remaining six were in rough, horizontal and parallel markings down his spine, as was his first. Each had slightly varying lengths and depths, however, with the difficulty of such a spot. Kráma knew his friends were dying for Kráma to make his next kill so he could complete his systematic scarring on his arms. They preferred the symmetry the most. "You're annoying me," he groaned.

_Oh, don't be such a puss!_ one said between laughs.

After a few more minutes of scratching and muffled giggling, Kráma had finally found his center for a light sleep. One hour later he was woken up by a burning beneath his skin. It was an irritation he hadn't felt since his last kill at Gringotts. He tried to pull the blankets over his head and drown out the giggling again and ignore the itching, but it wouldn't stop. Right above his scars, on his left forearm, was his skin longing for another mark. He pushed the blankets off of him and sat up. He suddenly realized he wasn't in his t-shirt and shorts that he went to bed wearing. Kráma was dawned in his first kill's clothing-a bit worn now, and still smelled of fire. He examined the fabric on him. "What the-?" he said shocked. He heard laughter now. "When did you idiots do this?"

_Just go. She's waiting…_

Kráma had long given up on sleep and instead just smirked, readying himself for a busy night.

~.-.~

_Look! A light!_ one friend said. Kráma stepped outside to see that one of the neighbor's lights was still on, presumably the living room. He smiled and made his way over. A rapping knock could be heard on the other side of the woman's door. She opened the door and her usual small smile that always seemed to cover her face turned into a look of concern. "Um… Hello?" The neighbor she had noticed before no longer looked like himself. He seemed paler, his eyes darker and devious. He wasn't wearing common clothing anymore but some old outfit that just seemed odd. Something about him put her on edge. "Hello, darling," Kráma replied, smirking. "How are you doing this evening?"

"I'm… Um, fine…"

_I'd say more than fine._ Kráma just grinned and put a hand in the doorway to stop her from shutting him out. She was fidgeting. "May I come in?" he asked.

"I don't think that's such a good idea," she said, backing away from the door slightly.

"Oh, come now!" he said deeply and stepped in anyway.

The woman's eyes grew bigger, she wasn't sure what was going to happen to her, but she was prepared for the worst already. Kráma lifted his wand, readying for a hex when he heard "EXPELLIARMUS!" from her side of the room. His wand flew out of his hand and he fell to the floor. He lifted his hand to his face and checked his lip-blood. He chuckled and wiped the blood with the back of his fist. He stood firmly and looked at her with a darkened stare. "Now, that wasn't very nice," he said coolly. Kráma looked down and found his wand, catching a flash of light from across the room out of the corner of his eye; he managed to dodge it. "Oh, this is going to be fun," he said with a laugh.

Kráma put his hands up in feigned surrender and walked slowly towards her. "Look," he began and cleared his throat. "I think you know why I'm here... I saw the way you were looking at me, and I just wanted to get to know you better."

"W-What do you want with me?" the woman asked, her wand still readying for another attack. She watched him as he carefully made his way to her. Her body still, but her eyes following him closely. Kráma was only inches from her body, his hands still in the air. "Don't be afraid," he said darkly. The blonde was subtly shaking. Before she could react, Kráma grabbed her by the waist and hit her with stunning spell in the chest.

~.-.~

The moon was out, but the skies were cloudy and haunting. The still unnamed witch to Kráma opened her eyes, wondering where she was. That was when she noticed that she was tied down to the ground, and her wand was nowhere to be found. Several hundred meters from their small neighborhood, Kráma and the blonde were now in a field away from everyone. She tried to scream but couldn't open her mouth-her lips had been sewn shut but not by charm. Kráma's hands were bloody and she saw needle and thread lying near her. That was when the searing pain from her lips made itself known and she began screaming behind tightly shut lips. Tears were forming and Kráma knelt by the woman and ran a hand down her face. Her eyes were wide with fear. "Shh…" he cooed. "No reason to scream…"

_What are we going to do to her?_

"Shut up!" Kráma said, looking up as if talking to someone above.

The woman darted her eyes in the same direction and then back at him, wondering who this man was. "I'm sorry about that," he said to her, and then stood up to walk back over to his wand. He brought his wand to his lips and blew on the tip as if he were providing oxygen to smoldering embers. A flame lit and he smiled with dark eyes. He heard laughing but ignored it for a moment. Kráma brought the flame down to where the woman was lying. "I must not tell a lie," he said with a grimace. "This is going to hurt!" He laughed and the woman began sobbing from the pain of her lips and the paralyzing fear. The wand touched the ground beneath her and the spot she was laying on became a bed of fire. In a matter of minutes, the flames consumed her body and Kráma sat by the fire, smelling the burning flesh and warming his hands in the cold night. He was mesmerized by the way the flames licked her flesh. He watched in anticipation. He heard mumbling and moans, but he had long since shut out his friends. This was his moment.

Screams and tears had ended hours ago, and the fire was finally losing its power. Kráma stifled the last of it with his boot. He breathed in deeply and lifted his hands up to the air. The sun was beginning to rise on another cold morning and he felt rejuvenated.

_The sun looks orange like those flames, huh?_ one said.

"Yes," Kráma responded after hours of ignoring them. "It's beautiful."

He picked up the corpse of his once beautiful neighbor and carried it back to his home. Hardly anyone was around at such an early hour, so he had time. He laid the roasted corpse in a creek, casting several severing charms on the body. The charm pulled apart the body and sent it away with the water in small, indistinguishable pieces.

Kráma wasn't one for sentimentality. He loved metal-charming, and that was about it. But what he loved most of all was killing. Feeling good, Kráma made his way to his bed ready to sleep. He would report his neighbor as missing to the Ministry of Magic tomorrow. They had been very proud of his progress since his stint in Azkaban; he knew they wouldn't suspect him. They hadn't yet.

_Number twelve, huh? I wonder who will be lucky thirteen…_

Kráma smiled. He never really did have much of a plan. "We'll find out together."


End file.
